I am Young, Vapid, and Want to Complain

First, I will complain about things I have total control over, from my fitness level to my terrible taste in men. Then I will complain about being accused of having control over these things. Finally, I will ask the question on all of our minds: why do non-athletic elastic waistband shorts exist?

I am out of shape. I used to be able to run seven-minute miles and now I blame the heat and my hair-tie, but it is all a rationalization designed to make me feel better about the wheeze as I round mile three. My playlist is far too many bpms for my pace and in the last road race I ran I was passed by an old woman with a cane (because she was blind), a 300-lb man with a neck tattoo, and a 12-year-old with a T-shirt that read, on the back, EAT MY DUST.

My commute is full of terrible strangers that I only feel kindly towards if they: trip; have unnoticed fashion malfunctions; or are small children in endearing outfits—preferably dressed as an adult or adorable animal. Sometimes I pass the time determining if my fellow passengers are: gay or European; hipster or homeless; pregnant or unfortunate; male, female or gender-indeterminate-clown-dressed-in-traditional-quincenera-garb. And thwarting my plans for a fun commute spent silently judging those around me, my phone’s screen is scratched/cracked. The buttons sometimes don’t work and then I sit there, slapping my phone and cursing under my breath. Tourettes or someone who gets drunk and throws things?

Nota Bene: Some people should never wear shorts (group A). Some people should never wear shorts when they know they will be sitting next to a complete stranger who has no choice but to jostle into their billowing, doughy legs for thirty minutes and pretend, out of common courtesy, to be actually reading the Mesothelioma class action suit advertisement on the wall and not shuddering with each convulsion of flesh (group B). Some people should only wear shorts (Natalie Portman, Mario Lopez). Some people should never wear clothing at all (Ryan Lochte: call me, definitely).

Ruining any chance for future empathy, I am only interested in emotionally unavailable men. There is always a childhood trauma, fear, or girlfriend but rationalizing is my best/worst trait. How am I supposed to make a stable and healthy choice when I have to commute to work and my phone doesn’t properly play the Phil Collins/Scandinavian electronic/aggressive rap I need to get through a run? Forces beyond my control lead me to sit at home drinking a beer reading about the woman who gave birth hours after running a marathon. Really Amber Miller? Stop being a jerk.

The real issue here is that city gym memberships equal monthly rents in certain parts of the country and sometimes a 36 oz. soda fountain rum and coke makes the day bearable. Why ban large sodas? Why would you do that to me? Missing the boat/rowing machine here, Bloomberg. Also, Equinox: you think a clothing line, house-made wheatgrass chia kombucha bar, and locker room hairdryers that cost more than a nice fixed gear bicycle will convince me to join an establishment named after a rare celestial phenomenon? Try again. How about this: twice a year I will ride my bike past you and we can judge each other through your floor to ceiling windows. Spoiler: your members’ thighs will still jiggle.

And seriously, whoever invented non-athletic elastic waistband shorts? Shut it down. People need to take a cold hard look at themselves: if you need the waistband, you do not need the shorts.